


Cendrillon

by Organelle



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Crossdressing, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Kissing, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, it got out of hand, this could probably be romantic if you really want it to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Organelle/pseuds/Organelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Combeferre need to go to unconventional lengths to further their cause.</p><p>(A collaboration)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the Cafe Musain, new ideas were blossoming along with the flowers of spring. The group of young revolutionaries had been hard at work all week gathering as many supplies as they could from some of their new contacts. Enjolras had maintained that just because winter was over, there was no reason to stop preparing, and had perhaps made the most progress of all. He had called his two closest lieutenants and friends, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, into the cafe that afternoon to discuss their next actions. 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked up from their table when Enjolras entered the room with his eyes lowered and hands clasped.

“Our plans are moving quickly,” he said with a frown twisting his face. “Monsieur Durand can get us the information about the new stock of powder on Rue Mazarine, but we have to meet him in an inconspicuous location.”

“Why are you making such a distasteful expression?” said Courfeyrac. “One would expect you to be jumping up and down and giggling with excitement!”

Enjolras’ grimace deepened. “He will be attending the spring ball of Monsieur and Madame d'Aubigné, and we will also have to be in attendance in order to talk with him.”

“And of course you cannot abide the thought of participating in such a display of aristocratic excess,” Combeferre finished, raising his eyebrows and looking up at the blond.

“Unfortunately, it must be done,” said Enjolras with a sigh. “We must make our plans and decide who is to attend. Only two of us will be able to go, in order to avoid arousing suspicion or risk being crippled if anything goes wrong.”

“Every gendarme in Paris knows your face,” reasoned Combeferre. “But Courfeyrac and I have no reason to appear together. The same problem persists with the rest of our group.”

The three of them sat together in silence for a time, pondering the problem.

“We could get one of our friends to appear with their mistress,” exclaimed Courfeyrac. “Joly and Musichetta, perhaps?”

Enjolras sighed and furrowed his brow. “While Citoyenne Musichetta is an admirable woman, she does not have the training for the sort of conduct that would be expected of her at one of these events, and it is too near to teach her so thoroughly that she would not be discovered.” 

Suddenly, a wicked grin appeared on Courfeyrac’s face. “I’ve got it! Ever think of becoming someone else for a night?”

The other two looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?” asked Combeferre. 

“Well, Enjolras looks enough like a woman already. With a dress and a little bit of rouge here and there, no one would ever be looking for a law student, and he would have a reason to appear with one of us.” 

The other two stared at him dumbfoundedly. Finally, Combeferre seemed to have gathered his thoughts enough to speak. 

“And... with which of us would he appear?”

Courfeyrac looked at them with an impish smile. “Of course it would have to be you, Combeferre. Enjolras would have to play the wife or mistress, and none of the rest of us could convincingly act the part of his husband. Our problem is solved.”

At this point, Enjolras’ mouth was hanging open in shock. He quickly moved to cover it with his hands and turned to look at Combeferre for confirmation.

Courfeyrac looked smug. “Do either of you have a better course of action?”

Enjolras looked as if he had several courses of action that had come to mind, but as the other   
two waited he adopted a resigned expression. “I suppose your plan is for the best, Courfeyrac. What do you think, Combeferre?”

Combeferre looked mildly dazed by the entire conversation. “Hm, I, well, I think it would work well. If, of course, you would...?”

Enjolras was staring at his hands. “While it is a rather... unorthodox approach to the situation, I believe it would be the most effective plan.” He looked up at Combeferre. “And as it would further our aims, I will play the part to the best of my abilities.” 

\-------  
Back at their shared apartment, Enjolras and Combeferre sat facing each other on the bed, deep in discussion about the events that had just transpired.

“I didn’t mean for it to sound like I was objecting to the idea of being a woman,” Enjolras was saying as he motioned to his friend. “It was just the nature of the suggestion that caused my hesitation.”

Combeferre pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You do have to admit that this wasn’t the most inane suggestion that he has ever made. Besides, how many chances do we get to be something that we are not?”

“I do not wish to be anyone other than myself,” sighed Enjolras, dropping his head into his hand. “Also, if we wish to keep our cover, I will have to remain silent since my voice would obviously expose me. How can I do that while surrounded by those who are so openly opposed to our cause?”

“Do you not trust me to handle whatever remarks come our way?”

Enjolras’ eyes softened. “I would trust you with anything.” 

Upon hearing this, Combeferre moved closer to Enjolras and slipped a hand around his waist. Enjolras leaned in, resting his head on the brunet’s shoulder.

“I’ll need women’s clothing,” Enjolras mumbled into his friend’s neck. “It would be too strange if I went out and got dresses fitted to me. If we went together, it would seem equally, if not more, suspicious. You would have to gather everything I need.”

Combeferre placed his other hand on Enjolras’ head and started slowly running it through his blond curls. A soft noise escaped Enjolras’ lips as he settled in closer to Combeferre’s body.

“As you said, you can always trust me with anything.” Combeferre leaned down and pressed a kiss to Enjolras’ hair. “I will go tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

Enjolras’ arms tightened around Combeferre’s chest. “Thank you,” he said, then lifted his head and smiled sweetly at his best friend. “Thank you, mon amour.”


	2. Chapter 2

Combeferre was getting extremely tired of shopkeepers and their incessant questions.

“Are you sure these are your wife’s measurements?” the woman in question asked him for what must have been the fifth time. 

When was Courfeyrac going to arrive? Combeferre was supposed to have met him in the shop, but he had been alone for more than half an hour already. He hoped there had been no trouble, both for the sake of Courfeyrac and his own sanity. 

“I am quite sure. I had them taken by my good friend, who certainly knows what he is doing.” 

“Your friend, you say? I am sure they were thorough in their method,” she remarked, raising her eyebrows.

Combeferre hummed in agreement as he looked between the pieces of fabric in his hands. They both appeared the same at first glance, and even felt the same, yet one was twice the price of the other. All of these complications in tailoring a dress were making his head hurt. How did women lead their daily lives like this? 

“Well, this is certainly going to be less work for me. I won’t have to let out the chest much.”

Combeferre breathed a sigh, and turned his face so the shopkeeper wouldn’t see his grimace. This was turning out to be much more exhausting than he had expected. 

\--------

“No, no, no, when I told you to sit still, I meant completely still! That includes blinking, Enjolras. For the leader of a political society, you are awful at following orders.”

“I’m sorry! I’m not used to having these things poking into my eyes.”

Jehan let out a huge sigh and continued to drag the brush over his lower eyelids. Enjolras’ eyes were starting to water from the pressure, but as the last failed attempt had taught him, the paint was very delicate and would be ruined by the slightest moisture. How did women manage to go through this routinely? 

“Ah, my sweet Pygmalion! Aphrodite’s eyes never shone so beautifully. God must weep every day that he created the sky before he knew of this color. Iris herself must have been present at your birth in order to gift you with such a divine shade of blue!”

Enjolras was making a valiant effort to keep his face straight, but his blush was redder than the rouge Jehan was now holding in his hand. He managed to compose himself, and eyed it warily. “Why do you need two containers of that?” he asked.

“One is for your mouth, and the other is for your cheeks,” Jehan stated as though it were obvious. 

Enjolras was still confused, but he allowed his friend to brush the rouge over his cheeks and lips. 

“You won’t need much of this, since roses bloom year-round in your skin,” Jehan remarked. “Now look!” he finished with a giddy smile. He jumped out of the chair facing Enjolras and skipped across the room to grab the hand mirror off of the table. 

Enjolras peered at his reflection. “Hm?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, I look...rather red.”

Jehan beamed. “You will be the envy of all the women of Paris. Combeferre will have to keep a tight hold on you, lest you be stolen away for kisses from the rest of the party. Men might try to lock up their hearts, but they are no match for a mere glimpse of your face.”   
“Jehan, I’m sure the guests have more self-control than that.”

The poet flung his arms out in despair and fell face-first onto the bed. “I pity you, having been born with no soul,” he shouted into a pillow. 

“I may have been born without a soul,” Enjolras replied, “but now I must go and visit Courfeyrac, and I fear that with this on my face he may not be able to contain his own.” He took a cloth and began to wipe the makeup off, ignoring Jehan’s cries of anguish.

\--------------------------

Courfeyrac waltzed into the dress shop a full hour after Combeferre had expected to meet, his coattails flying after him. 

“Finally, you’ve arrived! What was keeping you from coming here on time?”

“Oh, my class was running late. Us serious law students must make some occasional sacrifices for the pursuit of education.”

Combeferre gave him an exasperated look. “By which you mean you were arguing with your professor again. Will you ever learn that the classroom is no place for debates?”

“Well, it’s so hard for me to resist sometimes,” he shrugged. “Ah, has mademoiselle helped you choose a pattern for your lovely wife?” he exclaimed upon seeing the shopkeeper and the piles of fabric on the table. 

“I was thinking of this for the bodice,” Combeferre said, pointing at a roll of beige poplin. Before he could continue, he was interrupted by Courfeyrac’s horrified gasp.

“What are you thinking, Combeferre?” He turned to the shopkeeper, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I apologize from the depths of my heart for my friend’s abysmal fashion sense, mademoiselle. It is a wonder he has managed to win over a woman at all.”

“From what I know of her, I am sure she was grateful for the opportunity,” the woman said.

Courfeyrac flashed his brightest smile at the two of them. “Combeferre, we cannot let your plain tastes guide us in this situation. Mademoiselle, I would like a look at some of your finer wares, please.”

As the woman went to the back of the shop, Combeferre turned to his friend. “Courfeyrac, I was trying to be frugal. You know I cannot afford the sort of thing that is in your tastes.” 

“Oh, but you’re not the one who will be paying for it. Enjolras is.”  
“Who’s Enjolras?” Both men turned to see that the shopkeeper had returned with an armful of fabric and was now eyeing them suspiciously. 

“Oh, he is just a wealthy friend of ours who would be perfectly willing to provide funds for us,” Courfeyrac said. “I shall send him to pick up the dress and he can give you payment.”

The shopkeeper had a bewildered expression on her face. “Another friend?” She looked at Courfeyrac, and then at Combeferre. “You and your wife certainly have many generous friends, monsieur.” 

Courfeyrac turned to the fabrics in another corner before gesturing at Combeferre. “We must pick one for the bodice. Were you still considering that dreadful poplin for the skirts?”

“Why no, I-”

“Come on now, you can’t be serious. These parties are no place for a flat figure.”

Combeferre glanced up at Courfeyrac in time to see the shopkeeper behind him holding a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she suppressed what would no doubt have been a bout of inappropriately raucous laughter. He couldn’t quite muster up the same terrifying glare  
as Enjolras, but he made his best effort as Courfeyrac continued to pick at fabric after fabric. This entire ordeal could not have been over soon enough.

\---------------------------------------

Enjolras walked up to the door of Courfeyrac’s apartment, rubbing the last traces of rouge off of his cheeks. He ran through all of the information Jehan had given him yet again. There was a seemingly infinite amount to remember in order to be properly fashionable. He hoped that he could steady his hand well enough to replicate the look that Jehan had created, as apparently he looked as “resplendent as the sun” in it. 

Enjolras rapped sharply on the door, and was greeted not by Courfeyrac, as he had expected, but by a young woman with deep brown curls and a flaming red skirt. 

“Hello there, Enjolras!” she greeted him with a smile.

Enjolras’ eyebrows went up. “Excuse me, but have I met you before?” 

“Well, Félix has told me about you, but it’s not like you’re a stranger. Every worker in this part of Paris knows who you are. Your speeches are so inspiring, with both your fine words and your fine appearance.” She winked at him on the last word. Enjolras’ face flushed red and he struggled to keep from giving the woman one of his glares. She was dear to Courfeyrac, after all.

“All the same, you have not yet been introduced to me, mademoiselle.”

“I’m called Camille. Now, come inside, we have a lot of work to do!”

Enjolras remained standing outside even as she beckoned him. “I’m sorry, but I need to speak with Courfeyrac. Would you mind telling him that I was here when he comes back?”

Camille pouted at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Félix told me that you need my help, and of course how could I fail to help a friend of his? Especially an angel such as you!”

Enjolras looked at his feet and bit his lip in embarrassment, but followed her inside anyways. He strode quickly past her to sit on Courfeyrac’s chaise, only to see her looking appraisingly at him.

“Looks like we won’t have to do much work after all. You already have a convincing enough walk.”

Enjolras looked up, confused. “Convincing walk?”

She nodded. “Most gentlemen like you walk like this.” She walked a couple steps, keeping her back straight, shoulders pushed forward, and carefully placing one foot in front of the other. “If you walked like that into the party, you might not give yourself away right off, but people would definitely notice.”

“How much did Courfeyrac tell you?” he replied, raising an eyebrow.

“I know that you’ll be attending a ball soon and wearing an unusual costume,” she said. A coy smile came over her face. “Your friend is certainly a lucky fellow.”

Enjolras felt his face heat up for the third time in five minutes. As amiable as Camille had been, he hoped that Courfeyrac would arrive soon and that these preparations would be over quickly.

\---------------

Courfeyrac threw open the door of his apartment. “Camille! Is Enjolras here?! I’m sorry we were late, but certain people have horrendous taste in fabrics and it took me hours to erase the damage..."

“Félix!” Camille strode into the sitting room of the apartment, a weary-looking Enjolras trailing behind her. 

“Hello Courfeyrac, Combeferre,” greeted Enjolras, voice heavy with fatigue.

“Félix,” said Camille coyly, “why have you never told me about your friend here? He walks well enough to fool anyone, if his face didn’t already do that.”

Courfeyrac smiled back at her. “You wouldn’t be thinking of leaving me, would you, chéri?”

“Hmmm, well, with the way he swings his hips...”

Courfeyrac burst out laughing. “Artemis may have been beautiful, darling, but Cupid’s arrow is the one that pierces the heart.”

Enjolras flushed red and started to say something indignantly, but a yawn came out instead. 

“Don’t fall asleep quite yet, Enjolras,” said Courfeyrac, crossing to Enjolras and reaching out to stroke his blond curls. “I’ve been looking forward all day to curling your hair,” 

Enjolras looked at him, and then at Combeferre, his eyelids trembling with sleep. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

Courfeyrac threw his hands up dramatically. “I suppose, just for you, I could come to your apartment before the ball and do your hair for you. I was going to give Combeferre some practical education in the matter, but I will probably do it better anyway.”

Combeferre gave a flat look to Coufeyrac and put his hand on Enjolras’ back to lead him out of the apartment. “Goodbye, Camille. It was a pleasure to meet you. Courfeyrac, I will see you again in two days’ time.” 

\---------------

By the time the two friends returned to their apartment, Enjolras had draped his arm around Combeferre’s shoulders and was hardly supporting any of his own weight. Still holding the blond, Combeferre used a free arm to open the door. The red light of the sunset filtered in through the window as the two entered. Enjolras broke away from Combeferre to fall heavily onto the chaise. 

“Come now, Michel. You can’t sleep there,” Combeferre said gently, shaking his head. Enjolras made a muffled sound into the pillow and turned his head towards the wall. Combeferre sat next to him and put his hand on the small of his back. “Let’s eat some bread, and then you can rest.”

Enjolras sat up slowly and watched Combeferre as his friend went to the cupboard and brought a slice of bread back to him. He untied the knot of his cravat and let it fall to the floor, taking the slice from Combeferre and slowly eating it. When he finished, he let himself slide forward until his head was resting against Combeferre’s shoulder.

Combeferre took hold of Enjolras’ arm and helped him off the chaise, leading him into their bedroom. He let his friend slide his jacket off and unbutton his waistcoat before his knees buckled and he fell onto the bed. 

“Michel, I need you to stay awake for just a few minutes, all right?” Enjolras felt Combeferre’s hand on his cheek, his friend’s thumb stroking softly under his eye. “You can’t sleep in these clothes, and you need to put on your nightshirt.” Enjolras turned his face into Combeferre’s palm and hummed noncommittally. 

Enjolras pulled away from Combeferre’s touch to yawn. “Philippe,” he started to say, then seemed to forget he was talking, instead fixing his eyes upon Combeferre’s in a tender gaze. They looked at each other for a long moment before Enjolras slowly got up and walked over to his dresser, pulling out his nightshirt. Combeferre turned away in order to put his own nightshirt on. When he turned back. Enjolras was leaning against the dresser with his eyes closed. 

“Michel.” Enjolras’ eyes fluttered half-open at the sound of his name, but he didn’t move from his where he was standing. Combeferre smiled at his friend, walked across the room and putting his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. When the blond leaned forward into his touch, he slid his hand around his friend’s back, bending over to scoop him into his arms. He cradled Enjolras’ small frame as he brought him back to the bed, the blond’s face buried in his neck. He pressed a soft kiss to Enjolras’ forehead before laying him gently on the bed.

At the contact with the bed, Enjolras’ eyes opened once more. “Philippe,” he repeated, reaching out to his friend. Combeferre got in after him and pulled the blanket up to cover their shoulders. The two of them wrapped their arms around each other, Enjolras tucking his head into his friend’s chest and Combeferre moving his hand up to run it through Enjolras’ soft hair. Enjolras’ breath was warm through Combeferre’s nightshirt as he fell into peaceful sleep. Combeferre gave his friend another kiss and closed his own eyes, pressing their foreheads together as he too drifted off.


	3. Chapter 3

Combeferre stood in front of the mirror and readjusted his cravat for at least the fifth time. He ran through their false identities once more in his head. 

“We are Monsieur and Madame de Cadeau,” he said quietly out loud, carefully articulating the particle. “We are friends of Monsieur de Courfeyrac, from Belle-Île-en-Mer.”

He had been trying all day to come up with a prepared list of frivolities in case of any instances in which he would actually have to carry on a conversation. It was hard, since his usual conversations were intellectual and stimulating. He was afraid that he would come off as too bored or not knowledgeable enough, and would give them away. He also feared that Enjolras, with all his passion, would not be able to contain himself if he were to hear some political comment.

As he was still mulling it over, he heard the door of the apartment open. Enjolras had gone out earlier to pick up his dress from the tailor’s, so Combeferre presumed that he had returned. Combeferre turned to greet his friend, only to be met with the sight of a huge clothing bag that spilled lace and taffeta, completely obscuring the blond from view.

“Let me take that,” Combeferre said, quickly crossing the room to relieve Enjolras of his burden. The blond’s face was red and he wore an indignant expression. Combeferre took the dress into the bedroom and laid it on the bed before turning back to listen to what his friend was obviously thinking about. 

“Why,” said Enjolras, “did the woman at the tailor’s start laughing when I told her my name?”

Combeferre instantly remembered his own meeting with the tailor the previous week. “Courfeyrac... may have mentioned your name in conversation.”

Enjolras fixed his friend with his most commanding stare. “What did he say about me?” 

“For one thing, the shopkeeper had expressed some... incredulity when I gave her your measurements,” Combeferre began. Enjolras looked down briefly and picked at his shirt, then looked back up at Combeferre, silently prompting him to continue.

“Then,” Combeferre said, “I mentioned that my friend had taken them, and he was to be trusted. But I felt as if the woman had formed her own view of our relationship.”

“But the friend you mentioned was Courfeyrac, and you never said my name in connection with your ‘wife’, did you?”

“No, but after Courfeyrac arrived, the shopkeeper overheard him saying that you would be paying for the dress.”

Enjolras closed his eyes. “I should have known that Courfeyrac was involved in this.”

“You will likely never see that woman again, Michel. At the moment, you need to get ready.”

Enjolras went to the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Combeferre turned back to the mirror and nervously smoothed back his hair. After a few minutes, he heard Enjolras’ voice through the bedroom door. 

“Philippe, I--” A thump echoed through the apartment. “I am in need of some assistance.”

Combeferre opened the door and looked down at his friend. The blond was lying on the floor with his ankles tangled in the mess of skirts that were spread all around him. Combeferre reached down and helped him up, being careful to not let Enjolras crush the dress underfoot.   
“This outfit is highly complicated. I have never worn anything with so many parts to it. How on earth do women manage these every day?” he said with frustration.

“Come here and let me help you, Michel.”

Combeferre took hold of Enjolras’ shoulders and turned him to face the wall. He picked up the corset from the pile of clothes on the floor and slid it over his friend’s arms. Drawing the strings behind Enjolras’ back, he began to tightly lace it up. When he reached the top, he paused. “Is that all right? Can you breathe?” he asked the blond. Enjolras took a few experimental breaths and nodded. Combeferre tied the knot and placed his hand on his friend’s back. “Let me know if you’re uncomfortable, all right?” he said. Enjolras turned his head to smile back at his friend and nodded again.

Combeferre searched through the mess of fabric for the bottom petticoat, holding it out for Enjolras as the blond stepped into it. As he continued to put on skirts, Combeferre handed them to him one by one, and then pulled up the crinoline and laced that as well.

“Are you sure this is how it’s supposed to go?” Enjolras asked, attempting to walk without tripping over his skirts. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” Combeferre smiled warmly at his friend. “You look very well. Everything will be fine.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the sound of the apartment door flying open and Courfeyrac’s loud voice carrying throughout the room. 

“Are you two dressed yet? I’ve brought the shoes from Musichetta’s-” Courfeyrac said, opening the door to the bedroom. Upon seeing Enjolras, he let out a laugh.

“Is there something wrong?” Enjolras asked dryly.

“Oh, I seem to have intruded upon the modesty of a beautiful young maiden,” Courfeyrac giggled. “Let me avert my eyes!”

Combeferre had retrieved the dress from the bed and paused in holding it out for Enjolras to step into in order to direct a flat look at his friend. “You thought of this plan, Courfeyrac. You have no right to make fun of us now.” 

Courfeyrac shrugged his shoulders with a smile. “Well, you actually decided to execute it. It’s good to know that my plans have so much merit even when I came up with them on a whim.” He sat down on the bed where the dress had been. “But don’t mind me, I’m just here to watch my own show. 

Now your virtue is preserved, so it is all right.”

Ignoring his friend, Combeferre began to lace up the back of the gown. Enjolras shifted underneath the fabric, trying to get used to the constricting garment. 

Courfeyrac had extracted several pins and hair combs from the pockets of his jacket. “I borrowed these from Camille, so be careful not to lose any of them. Now hold still and cooperate.”

Now that the dress was completely assembled, Combeferre stepped out of the way as Courfeyrac slid a chair over to Enjolras. The blond sat down slowly, gathering his many skirts underneath him. Courfeyrac immediately gathered his long curly hair in his hands and began expertly separating and pinning it into place. Enjolras closed his eyes, feeling Courfeyrac’s hands in his hair and the pins scratching his scalp. Finally, after what Enjolras felt to be an inordinately long time, Courfeyrac slapped him on the back. “Go take a look and get that makeup done,” he said, smiling at his friend. 

Enjolras collected the cosmetic containers that Jehan had given him and went into the other room, lifting his eyes to look into the mirror. His hair was neatly piled on the top of his head with one curl hanging loosely from the right side. He supposed it was reasonably fashionable; Courfeyrac had a good instinct for these things, or so he constantly told him. 

He began to hesitantly apply the powder to his face. After brushing it over his cheeks, forehead, and eyes, he took a look into the mirror. He supposed it looked reasonably similar to when Jehan had demonstrated it. Then, he then took out the rouge and stared at it with apprehension. Jehan had said that there was a separate kind for the cheeks and lips, and he had helpfully written which was which on the containers. He put those on too to the best of his ability, trying to remember all of the tips the Romantic had given him. When he was satisfied, he put the rouge away. 

Finally, he picked up the brush for the jar of black kohl, dipping it in before drawing thin lines around his eyes. He blinked and willed himself to avoid rubbing his eyes with his hands. The lines were steady and smooth, so he put that jar away with the others. 

Enjolras turned around to face his friends, who had begun talking amongst themselves. He stood in the doorway of the bedroom and coughed to get their attention. “Do I look passable?” he asked. 

The two men looked stunned at the sight of their blond companion looking so different than usual. Combeferre’s mouth hung slightly open as he looked at his friend, and Courfeyrac theatrically flung himself to the side to cling to Combeferre’s shoulders. “It seems we have been graced by a lady of the court!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. Enjolras crossed his arms and glared at his friend. Courfeyrac grinned at Enjolras and handed him a pile of jewelry. “This is borrowed too,   
so no donating it to people on the streets.”

Enjolras made a scoffing noise and started fastening the clasps around his neck and arms. All of a sudden, the apartment door burst open and the three friends heard a deep voice shouting through their apartment. It was, of course, Jean Prouvaire.

“Enjolras, you had better still be here! I need to check to make sure you-” The bedroom door opened to reveal the poet, holding an armful of white lilies. “There you are!” he said. “I know the plans of this operation, Enjolras, and I know you have to wear a white flower for identification, and I know enough about you to be sure that you will not have anything better than a scrap of dirty silk lying around your apartment. You are lucky to have me here for you.” With that, the Romantic threaded a lily into Enjolras’ curls and stuck a second one into Combeferre’s lapel. 

“Are we near finished with all these preparations? If Combeferre and I do not leave soon, we will be quite a bit more than fashionably late,” said Enjolras. 

Courfeyrac’s face twisted in confusion. “Not even the slowest coach in Paris would get you there that late,” he said. “You aren’t planning on walking there, are you?”

Now it was Combeferre’s turn to be confused. “Of course we are. It’s the most practical way.”

Courfeyrac and Jehan both let out loud sighs. “No, no, no!” shouted the poet in exasperation. “Your dress will drag in the mud, and your hair will be blown out of place by the wind, and everything will be ruined.”

Courfeyrac nodded solemnly. “He’s right, which is why I have already rented a carriage for the two of you. It will be here with plenty of time to spare. Don’t worry about anything other than getting the information, all right?”

“Thank you, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said, sitting back down on the chair in the middle of the room. “Now that we have some time to spare, let’s discuss our plans for the next meeting.”

Courfeyrac and Jehan fell back onto the bed with a collective groan. Next to Enjolras, Combeferre shook his head with a smile and rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

\---------------------------

A few hours had passed when the friends heard the sound of horse hooves against the cobblestones outside the window. Courfeyrac leapt excitedly from his chair and hurried Enjolras and Combeferre to the door. 

“Oh! I almost forgot,” he exclaimed. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded fan. “I bought this from Feuilly. He said it was his best one that week and he was very excited for you to have it.” 

Enjolras had grimaced slightly at the sight of the fan, but when Courfeyrac mentioned Feuilly he brightened up. Taking the accessory from his friend, he held it gently in his hands. “I will give him my heartfelt gratitude at the next meeting.”

Courfeyrac grabbed his blond friend’s shoulder and spun him towards the door. “Come now, my dear prince and princess. Your chariot awaits.” 

He waited by the window, watching Enjolras and Combeferre get into the carriage. The blond was struggling to gather all of his skirts in order to climb inside, even with Combeferre helping him from behind. The carriage driver’s interest seemed to have been piqued by their trouble, and by the flash of Enjolras’ stocking exposed by the movement of the fabric. Finally, Combeferre wrapped his arms around Enjolras’ waist and lifted him in, following close behind him afterwards. The carriage finally drove off, and Courfeyrac turned back to Jehan with a triumphant smile on his face.

\-------------------

As the carriage wheels creaked over the road, Combeferre turned towards Enjolras and clasped his hand in his own. “Are you nervous?” he asked. 

Enjolras looked at Combeferre. “I have full confidence that we will perform our roles adequately, but...” He turned away from his friend to look out the window. “I can’t help but hold some doubts as to whether this was really the best course of action to take.” 

Combeferre squeezed the blond’s hand tighter. “We are set in that course now. All we can do is perform to the best of our abilities, and I believe that you are more than capable.” At this, Enjolras squeezed back, meeting his friend’s eyes and giving him a sweet smile. 

“The Republic demands this of us, and I will do everything I can to lift her up,” Enjolras said with conviction. “It seems we have arrived, and so our task begins now.”


	4. Chapter 4

Combeferre stepped out of the carriage first, taking Enjolras’ warm hand to help him down. He could tell by the pained look on his friend’s face that he did not appreciate being treated like a fragile china doll, but he knew it was a necessary part of the role.

“Thank you, monsieur,” Combeferre said to the driver. “Come back for us at midnight.” He started to walk towards the gates, but was soon felt a tug at his hand. Enjolras stood still, glaring at him from under his blond curls. He took a franc out of his purse, pressing it into the driver’s hand. 

The driver looked at Enjolras in happy surprise. “You’re very generous, Madame,” he exclaimed. Enjolras merely turned away, covering his face with Feuilly’s fan. Combeferre took the blond by the arm, giving the driver a smile over his shoulder as he led his companion to the grounds’ entrance.

The entire mansion was not easily visible from where the carriage stopped, but the opulence of the iron gate and the flowers planted just inside it gave the two an idea of just what they were about to see. When they approached, a well-dressed man holding a long piece of paper walked up to meet them. “Name and title, please,” he said haughtily. 

“Monsieur and Madame de Cadeau, from Belle-Île-en-Mer,” Combeferre replied. “Here on the invitation of Monsieur de Courfeyrac.” The man looked down his list, and his eyes widened. 

“Oh yes, of course, de Courfeyrac. Please step inside, Monsieur.” He opened the gate with much less stiffness than he had previously displayed. 

The couple made their way along the paved pathway, through the lush gardens. They could see the mansion as a small white glow a while away. Combeferre paused for a moment to admire the intricate spirals of the trimmed hedges in the lawn, but after a few moments he felt Enjolras tugging on his hand once again. He looked at the blond to see a pout on his face. “Philippe, let’s go. We mustn’t keep Durand waiting,” he said. 

Combeferre sighed. “Enjolras, he probably hasn’t arrived yet. Why don’t you spend some time admiring this garden with me?” Enjolras didn’t respond, instead letting go of Combeferre’s hand to stride off by himself. “Wait, Michel!” As Combeferre was a much taller man, he quickly caught up to his friend.

Suddenly, Enjolras’ foot caught on the hem of his dress and he pitched forward, letting out a gasp. He would usually have been able to catch himself, having spent many hours running through much more dangerous streets to escape the gendarmes, but the combination of his constricting gown and unfamiliar shoes suppressed his normal agility. Fortunately, Combeferre was just as quick as he always was and managed to grab Enjolras around the waist before he hit the ground. Combeferre tightened his grip around the blond, hoisting him back to his feet. 

Enjolras turned to face Combeferre, but didn’t look him in the eye. “Thank you,” he mumbled, once again hiding his face with the fan. Combeferre stepped forward to give Enjolras a warm hug, smoothing out the dress and tucking a lock of his friend’s blond hair behind his ear. Enjolras blushed slightly at his touch, but kept his eyes on the ground. 

Combeferre knew what his friend was feeling and why he was so uncharacteristically quiet, even outside of his role as Combeferre’s “wife.” Enjolras was used to being a leader, and tended to refuse help from everyone, even Combeferre himself at times. Having to shift to the part of a submissive aristocratic woman who would be helped by her husband through even the smallest of tasks, not to mention being unable to speak, embarrassed him so much that he couldn’t even look his best friend in the eyes. 

Combeferre reached out to Enjolras, stroking his fingertips along the blond’s red cheek and tipping his chin up to meet his eyes. As they looked at each other, Enjolras slowly relaxed in Combeferre’s arms as his friend continued to caress his jaw. After a few minutes, Enjolras grasped Combeferre’s hand to tug him along once more.

\----------------

After five minutes of walking, Combeferre and Enjolras finally arrived at the door of the great mansion. The opulence of the exterior called Versailles to mind, but some neoclassical touches set it apart. The white stone facade glowed in the light of the setting sun, and a lively chatter could already be heard from the inside. Combeferre caught his blond friend glaring at a particularly ostentatious couple in heavy makeup and powdered wigs. 

Enjolras leaned in close to Combeferre and whispered in his ear. “What a waste all of this is. How are they so preoccupied with frivolous affairs, and so blind to the conditions around them?”

Combeferre smiled at him in agreement and whispered back, “As much as I despise this excess, tonight we have to fit in among them and act our parts. Which should not be overly difficult for you, since your family is from this class.” Enjolras threw an angry look and pointedly turned his face away from his friend. 

Combeferre gently tugged on the blond’s arm so they could continue through the gates, up the marble stairs, past the servants holding open the gilded double doors and into the hall itself. Although it was still early in the evening, the floor was already full of men and women in various levels of pageantry. Large gemstones sparkled from women’s necks, and gold thread gleamed on men’s embroidered waistcoats. The orchestra played sweetly from the back of the room while couples danced elegantly across the floor. Tables laden with food were pushed against the walls on either end of the hall. Combeferre could practically feel the heat from Enjolras’ anger at not being able to somehow give all of the food to those who would actually need it. 

Suddenly, Enjolras pulled Combeferre’s head down to his level. “That man over there,” he whispered, pointing to the far right table. “That’s Durand.”

Combeferre squinted through his glasses at the man Enjolras had indicated. He was rather nondescript, with dark hair and pale skin. The most distinctive thing about him was the way he was cramming food into his mouth as if he were starving to death. “I don’t see a white flower on him. Are you sure?”

Enjolras grimaced. “When I met him at the Corinthe, he spent the entire conversation cramming pastries into his mouth. He interrupted me multiple times to order more. I would have preferred to leave and find what we need elsewhere, but sadly the powder stores he knows about are too valuable to pass up.”

“All right,” replied Combeferre. “Let us get that information as quickly as possible, then.”

The two friends crossed the floor swiftly. As they got closer, Combeferre saw that the man did look vaguely familiar and did have a white flower in his lapel, although unlike their own it appeared to be made of silk. By the time they actually reached the table, he had eaten enough food to provide a decent meal to any normal person. 

Enjolras had pulled ahead of Combeferre and was striding toward Durand with an intense look on his face. The contact failed to notice the blond until he was standing directly in front of him with crossed arms. When he did, he jerked upright and stared at Enjolras, hastily brushing crumbs off of his waistcoat and wiping sauce from his face with his sleeve.

“Beautiful Mademoiselle, I do not believe we have had the honor of meeting,” he said. He appeared to be using every fiber of strength in order to stay upright and put-together in the presence of such a beautiful ‘woman’. He then noticed Combeferre standing next to the blond, and an expression of panic crossed his face. “Well! That is to say, Monsieur, you are quite lucky to have found a lady such as this,” he laughed nervously, eyes flicking between the two stern expressions facing him. Finally, his eyes fell upon the white lily threaded into Combeferre’s jacket. A few seconds passed in silence between the three. Finally, Durand managed to compose himself and looked fearfully up at the two. “Could you excuse me for just one moment before we conduct our... business?”

Enjolras stepped forward, grabbing Durand’s collar and yanking him closer. “Durand,” he hissed into his face. “There’s no reason to try and bow out, or whatever you were planning. You asked to meet here, and here we are. Now give us the information.”

Durand’s mouth had fallen open in shock at hearing Enjolras’ deep voice coming from the lady in front of him. He looked back at Combeferre as if expecting an explanation, only to find the man smiling encouragingly at him. Turning back to Enjolras, he stuttered and turned bright red before shoving his hands in his pockets to dig frantically. Pulling out a stained and crumpled piece of paper, he thrust it into Combeferre’s hand before wrenching away from Enjolras’ grip and disappearing into the growing crowd of aristocrats. 

Enjolras did not seem at all fazed by the escape of their contact. In fact, he wore a triumphant expression as he took the paper out of Combeferre’s hand, glancing over it before slipping it into his friend’s jacket pocket. “Now that our task is done, we can leave this place and return to more amiable company.”  
He turned towards the door, completely prepared to leave, when Combeferre’s hand shot forward to clasp his wrist. Enjolras turned around, a confused expression on his face. “What’s wrong, Philippe?” he asked, genuinely concerned. He could usually discern what his friend was thinking, having been close to him for many years, but on this occasion Combeferre was almost completely unreadable.

Combeferre tugged him back by the hand, lacing their fingers together and leaning in closer. They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, and Combeferre smiled. “Enjolras, since we have so few opportunities to let go of our anxieties,” he started to suggest before pausing thoughtfully. Enjolras tilted his head slightly, waiting for a further explanation.

Combeferre appeared to have resolved himself and leaned back towards his friend. He simply said, “May I have this dance?"


End file.
